Glitter and Glue (19 page)

I’m tempted to ask Evan if it’s possible that his mother made all the decisions and John was just the messenger, but I don’t know enough about cancer and what it does to a person to go that far, so I say the feeble, haggard, deeply true thing that everyone says even though it doesn’t help at all: “I’m so sorry.”

I haven’t had a working watch since I went swimming at Bondi a month back in my Anne Klein from Filene’s, but I know it’s at least one
A.M.
, maybe closer to two.

Tracy and I went out hard. We saw a band called the One Hit Wonders. They brought the house down with “My Sharona” and “Tainted Love” and the best ever, “867-5309.” Everybody sang along, and it felt like Friday night at Lambda Chi all over again. I’ve been thoroughly overserved.

On my way up the driveway, I grab a stick to swat down all the spiderwebs. It’s automatic now, as though this is actually the house where I live. For all my swinging and swatting in the dark, I’m still draped in silk threads that I can feel but not see.

John left a light on in the kitchen to guide me. Thoughtful. When I lean in to turn it off, there’s Ev, holding a magazine, drinking what smells like coffee. He’s so strange and cute and old.

“No work tonight?” I ask, surprised.

“Naw, new schedule.”

“Oh, well, hi. Is that coffee?”

“Decaf.”

He never goes out and gets ripped and sings “She Blinded Me with Science” arm in arm with a bunch of strangers.

“Just gonna get some water. Stave off the hangover, you know.” I enter his space and get a glass.

“Where’d you guys go?”

“Epping Hotel.” I lean back on the counter, taking a long drink, standing as close to him as I ever have, made bold by many pints of VB. “You haven’t seen my book, have you? I can’t find it.”

“No, sorry.”

“I think I left it on the train the other day.”

“Too bad,” he says. “All right, well …”

“Well …”

“I guess I better get some sleep.”

“Me, too,” I say, pushing myself away from the counter.

In my room, I stand by my bed, rubbing at traces of spiderweb on my neck, mad with frustration and urges. Maybe he doesn’t like me—after all this.

Of course he likes me. He tried to teach me to play chess!

Before I can think twice, I’m back in the kitchen.

“Forget something?” he asks.

I look at him and say, “Nope.”

And then I stand there, waiting, sure I will ignite if he doesn’t come over, if he doesn’t take four steps forward. But he does.

He crosses the once-enormous-now-tiny kitchen. He puts his arms around my waist and leans in and kisses me and it is so blood-tingling to finally be kissing him that I can’t kiss him enough. I kiss him to make up for every minute we’ve spent together not kissing. I kiss him like he swam the Nile to get to me, like a prisoner released, like it’s his first kiss, like it’s his last, like I can bring him back from the dead.
I will do that, Evan, I will kiss you until you feel like yourself again, until you revert to your true age and become just another cheeky bugger—bold, hungry, unstoppable—trying to shag the American girl who’s come to care for your half siblings. I will be that girl, Evan. I will lie down—in this kitchen, on this floor, if that’s what you want—and let you walk over me like a bridge to the rest of your life
.

Before I get out of bed, I relive last night. Must have been twenty minutes we mauled each other against the refrigerator. Fan-bloody-tastic. The thought of seeing him this morning, however, is so agonizing that I dash to the kitchen for a cup of coffee and slip back into my room without even putting milk in.

A minute later, Martin peeks in my door. I’m going to miss him, his cheer and wide openness.

“Hey, mister,” I say.

“What’s your name?” The call-and-response is back.

“Kelly.”

“What’s your mum’s name?”

“Mary.”

“What’s your name?” he starts again.

“What’s
your
name?” I take over, wondering if this is what he’s wanted all along.

“Martin Tanner!” There’s glee in his eyes. He knows what comes next.

“What’s
your
mom’s name?”

He revs his engine to bust through the barricade. “Mummy!”

“Ellen. Your mom’s name is Ellen,” I say, picking him up.

“ELLEN!” he repeats triumphantly, like he just filled in the last five squares on a crossword puzzle that everyone else had given up on.

“Ellen Tanner!”

“MUMMY ELLEN TANNER!” he belts out with true ecstasy. “MUMMY ELLEN TANNER.”

“That’s right!” It’s okay to say it now, I’m sure.

Milly appears at my door, and I’m afraid we’ll be reprimanded Captain von Trapp style, but she’s distracted by a letter. “Look, Keely! From your mummy. And there’s a picture in here. I can see it! I can feel the edges!”

I open the envelope and lift out a snapshot of my family, arm in arm on the lacrosse field at Washington and Lee. “Okay, here we go. Guys,” I say, as if I’m actually introducing everyone, “meet my family.”

The kids each take an edge of the photo, practically crawling into it, hunching over to pass their eyes across every person’s face. Booker in Ray-Bans and flip-flops; GT suited up in his gear with blackout under his eyes. Me in a borrowed red minidress that, I see now, does nothing but exaggerate my blocky figure. My dad in Bermuda shorts; my mom in a plaid A-line skirt and Jackie O glasses.

“That’s your mum,” Milly whispers, as intrigued to see my mother as I was to see hers.

“That’s her.”

“What’s her name?”

“You sound like your bro—”

“It’s Mary!” Martin shouts. “Her name is Mary.”

“That’s right. Mary Dwyer Corrigan.”

“You don’t look like her,” Milly says, surprised.

“No, I don’t. I look like my dad, like you look like your dad.”

“And my mom, too,” she corrects. “I can show you,” she says, opening the bottom drawer of a small dresser in my closet
and pulling out an envelope of photos that says
FREE DOUBLE PRINTS!
twice. “See?” she says, handing me a shot of the three of them.

“Wow, you’re so right. You do look like her. She’s so pretty.”

Milly smiles and spreads out the photos across my bed.

“You could take one of these,” Martin says.

“We have tons of extras.”

“I would love that. Which one is a good one?” Milly hands me a shot of her and her brother and her mom, out by the pool. “Thank you so much, Milly,” I say, referring to much more than this fuzzy four-by-six.

“You’re welcome,” she auto-replies, referring, I’m sure, only to the photo.

“I will keep—” The phone rings and both kids pop up to get it, sure “It’s Daddy!” and that takes precedence over looking through some old snapshots, even of their mother.

“Hey, before you go, have you guys seen Evan today?”

“He left this morning to help Thomas fix his car,” Milly reports on her way to the kitchen, trusting me to tidy up the pictures, slide them in their envelope and back in their drawer so, in case it’s ever called into question again, Milly can prove her resemblance to Mummy Ellen Tanner.

That afternoon, I beat it down to the chemist to buy red and purple Rit fabric dye. If I have to live another six months in the same ten pieces of clothing, I can at least change the colors.

First, clean all garments
, the instructions say. I know exactly where to go. Standing at Pop’s door, I knock gently, and he calls me in.

“Hi. I was wondering if you’ve started the laundry already?”

He sees the bundle in my arms and beams. “No, I have not. Let’s get going, shall we?” He lifts himself slowly, pushing up on the arms of his chair. “That right there looks like a nice load.”

I follow him down the hall and hand him my sweatshirt, a turtleneck that my mom sent me after I told her about the cold Sydney mornings, a couple of T-shirts, and a pair of boxer shorts that baffle Pop.

“I sleep in them.”

“If you say so.”

He pats down the clothes, his face bright with joy and usefulness. He’s whistling. I could have kept him busy. I should have.

“Afternoon,” Evan says, coming in the side door.

Pop and I both turn. I can feel myself oversmiling. Thank God Pop’s here to keep the conversation superficial.

“Hello, Evan. You’ll have to wait on your laundry today. Kelly here has a load in the works.” Evan and I grin at each other, and I blush, but Pop is so focused on the sounds of the washing machine, no one is the wiser.

“I should be able to get by,” Evan says.

“Thanks,” I say in a tone that says I’m taking the disruption to the day’s workflow very seriously.

“I’m off to the store. Won’t be home until late. Kelly, I thought I could take you to the art museum tomorrow if you want, for your last day.”

“Oh, sure. Great. Definitely. Yeah.” I halt the blathering there.

“All right, then. You two have a good night.”

“What’s that?” Pop says.

“Going to work.”

“Good boy.”

He is. He really is.

With Evan working and John out for the night, I ask Pop if he wants to have dinner with me after I get the kids taken care of. He smiles and says he’ll bring the wine.

That evening, the kids are angels, one of those lucky nights when everyone gets along, like how your hair always looks extra good the day before you’re scheduled to get it cut. Pajamas on, teeth brushed, blankets tucked around bodies, all without a single nag. I leave them in their beds, shining flashlights on their books, and join Pop at the table.

“Can I make you a glass of wine?” Pop offers, holding the tap on a box of Franzia.

“Please.”

He fills the glass to the tippy-top, like they do at Red Lobster. I’m tempted to joke that he’s trying to get me drunk, but I
don’t even know if he has a sense of humor, so I just say, “Cheers.” He nods and raises his glass carefully.

“I hope the food’s okay,” I say. “I’m not a big cook.”

“It smells marvelous.” He’s a gentleman from another era.

“It’s curry. I found a recipe that was starred, so I thought that must be a good one.”

“We loved curry,” he says, the
we
referring to I don’t know who.

“I think we’re about seven minutes away. The rice is still cooking.” I bring out our plates, and he winks when he sees that I set the table with the same china Evan used. “So you’re from Fiji?”

He explains, in his old-man voice with his old-man pacing, that he grew up in Australia, spent his youth there, but moved over to Fiji after he was married. “She always wanted to come back here, though.”

“Your wife?”

“Yes. Have I shown you her photo?” I shake my head. “Well, one moment, then!” He pushes back his chair and rises slowly, shuffling across the hardwood.

I check the rice. The simmering fish is getting too tough to wait any longer. I plate two dinners of chewy rice and hard fish, feeling every bit my mother’s daughter.

“Here she is,” he says.

I put our plates down. “What a beauty.”

“Indeed.”

While we work through our dinner, I ask him where the photo was taken, and he tells me about this house and that holiday and how good things were, and I listen, wondering how long it’s been since he’s said this many words in a row.